


Opposites Attract

by SailorChibi



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Alpha!Sherlock, Alpha/Omega, Alternate Universe, Eventual Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Magical Realism, Omega Verse, Omega!John, Prostitution, Protective!Sherlock, Rape, non con, yes I swear there's a happy ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-17
Updated: 2012-12-19
Packaged: 2017-11-16 12:41:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 15
Words: 16,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/539538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SailorChibi/pseuds/SailorChibi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After being attacked and held hostage in Afghanistan, John Watson has lost the ability to find his alpha. Alone and adrift after being sent home, back into a world that doesn't treat omegas well, he resorts to earning money however he can. His dysfunctional, broken heats are the only way he has to make a living... until the alpha he's been fucking turns up dead and Sherlock Holmes is called in to solve the case.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Sherlock belongs to Moffat, Gatiss, and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.
> 
> For a prompt on the BBC kink meme.

The heavy weight rests solidly on his thighs. Fingers tipped with sharp nails grip his hips. Soft grunting fills his ears as the alpha pulls out, shifts, and then rams back in, trying unsuccessfully to find the angle that will allow his knot to be forced inside. A sharp, momentary flare of pain nearly brings him back, but then once again the dimly pleasurable rhythm starts up again and he is able to drift away and forget about what’s happening. Dirty, wet kisses are slopped over his neck and shoulders, deliberately bypassing the scar on his shoulder. The grunts begin coming faster, the pace temporarily picking up, and his body reacts automatically, hips lifting, thighs spreading, back bowing in an effort to receive. A burning dampness floods him and he hisses, blinking.

“Fucking hell,” the alpha breathes, shifting off of him. “You’re one in a million, Johnny. Call me up next time of the month, yeah?”

John Watson rolls onto his back and gets up. “Thank you,” he says simply, picking up his trousers and sliding them on, neither confirming nor denying the offer. The burning doesn’t abate but, with months of practice, he is able to ignore it. He collects his fee from the dresser and walks out of the room. It’s enough to finish paying the rent and keep him in food for another month until his next heat starts. Then he’ll be back. He’s always back.

It’s a warm day outside, the sun shining, but it does nothing to flush the perpetual chill from his skin. He leans heavily on his cane as he makes his way down the pavement, thinking only of a long shower to erase the smell of the alpha and the seed he can still feel leaking down his thighs. It itches and makes his skin throb where it touches him, a sign that it’s wrong, it’s _all wrong_ , but John’s just too tired to care anymore.

The little flat where he spends his nights is just that. Little. There’s a bedroom and a bathroom and that’s it, and even the bathroom is barely big enough to fit him and a tub and a toilet, but it does the job. John strips naked and turns the water as hot as it will go before he gets in. The first thing he does it scrub the seed from his body, sliding his fingers into his hole and making sure that every bit has been washed out. The burning begins to subside under the cleansing but it still lingers and a slightly red rash has been left where it was on his skin. The mark of an omega who has been mounted by an alpha that isn’t their bonded. John ignores the marks; he ends every month with new ones and would have far worse if his heat wasn’t so pitifully short now.

He turns his face into the spray and breathes in the heavy, moist air before shutting the water off and climbing out. He dries with an old, worn towel that has too many holes to count in it and walks out into his bedroom fully nude. Already the dulled desire to be mounted has faded and he just feels tired and every bit as worn out as that towel. He lies down on his bed and stares at the ceiling. This is it, this is his life now, and he’s no longer sure that he really wants to see how it’s going to turn out.

\---

Clothing torn. Make-up smudged. Hair out of place on the right, curls mussed, and what’s that? Black paint. Greasy. Not regular paint. Stage paint? Actress. Wig. Costume. No. Regular clothing. Long nails. Expensive set of jewelry. Out of work actress with a rich lover. Trying to get back onto the stage the only way she knows how. Jealousy. Sleeping with too many men. Boring. 

Sherlock Holmes straightens up from his crouch over the body. “It was her lover,” he says, turning his coat collar up against the bitter wind that has sprung up seemingly out of nowhere. What a waste of a good afternoon that could’ve been more wisely spent working on his experiments. 

“Her lover?” Detective Inspector Lestrade pages through his notebook with a troubled frown. “We have no record of – ”

“Irrelevant. She has one. He killed her.” Sherlock waves a bored hand and turns to leave. He doesn’t know why Lestrade bothers calling him out for cases like this. In spite of their years of work together, the inspector doesn’t seem to have yet learned that Sherlock _doesn’t care_. Unless the case is interesting or worthwhile he doesn’t want to be bothered. 

“She was a bonded omega. She couldn’t have had a lover,” Donovan says, her arms tightly crossed.

With an annoyed sigh Sherlock stoops down over the body again. Paying no mind to the idea of propriety, he grabs the hem of her skirt and rucks it up around her buttocks. Donovan and Lestrade both draw in breath to yell at him, but they stop simultaneously when they catch sight of the tell-tale rash around the victim’s thighs. If one didn’t know better they’d think the woman was allergic to something. Sherlock knows better. He can smell the dried semen. 

“Evidence,” he says, “that this omega did indeed have a lover. One who was very jealous of the fact that she was already bonded to another alpha.”

He takes his gloves off and tosses them aside before striding off of the crime scene, heedless to the way that Lestrade is calling his name. He has more important things to do than waste his time getting caught up in the world of alphas and omegas and the little games they play.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock is deep into an experiment when he becomes aware of the fact that he is no longer alone in the flat. He doesn't have to look up to recognize the scent, silky and pervasive, that has invaded the room. Ink, the slightest undertone of gun metal, illicit pastries, and vanilla. Mycroft. He scowls down at his flask as he carefully pours in a small amount of an iridescent liquid that is purposely unlabeled. "I don't believe you were invited," he says. "For someone who is always trying to chastise me in regards to poor manners, you're certainly doing a decent job of displaying them."

"It's been a week since you stepped outside of the flat, Sherlock. D.I. Lestrade asked me to come by and make sure that you were still alive." Mycroft sounds distasteful, which means he's been looking around the flat. He doesn't approve of how Sherlock lives, though he's been slightly more agreeable since Sherlock moved into 221b Baker Street to live under the watchful eye of Mrs Hudson. "He has a case for you."

"More interesting than the last one, I hope," Sherlock drawls, refusing to look up or give any indication that he might be interested. It doesn't fool his brother. Mycroft just gives a heavy sigh and makes his way out of the flat, meaning that he really didn't have any purpose here aside from making sure Sherlock is still alive. Since he came all that distance himself, it means he will want Sherlock to do something for him in the near future. Mycroft always tries to foster some odd sense of sibling affection between them when he thinks Sherlock might be disagreeable.

As the door closes, Sherlock peels himself away from his experiment and checks his phone. Sure enough there's a host of texts from Lestrade, which grow increasingly impatient as he scrolls down the list. The last one is just an address with an initial attached, meaning Lestrade's given up on getting an answer. Sherlock fetches his coat and scarf and gets dressed. The case sounds marginally interesting this time. An alpha (rare for an alpha to be the victim, normally the cases they deal with the victims are omegas or, more commonly, betas) that was found in his flat. Shot, one clean bullet right through the heart. Already theories are swirling around in his mind but he firmly pushes them aside.

The drive is short and, unsurprisingly, no one looks pleased to see him when he strides into the room. "Decided to show up, Freak?" Donovan says.

"How could I pass up the opportunity to see you, Sally?" Sherlock responds, already focusing on the body. One hole, minimal blood, as the text indicated. An alpha, just as Lestrade said. A male, half dressed with just a pair of trousers on. Sherlock inhales deeply and is met by a slightly sour scent. Unbonded, then. But - curious. He can smell the scent of an omega in the room. It's several days old but it's still there, and it's particularly strong around the bed. The scent smells... odd, though. There's something off that Sherlock can't quite put his finger on.

"Anything?" Lestrade says wearily.

"Your murderer knew what they were doing. One shot straight to the heart would require some kind of anatomical knowledge of the human body," Sherlock tells him. "Most people wouldn't hit the heart even if they were aiming for it. Has experience with guns, too, to kill on one shot. I suspect the motive was personal being that it's to the heart and not the head. Bullet between the eyes is instant death no matter how skilled the marksman. With the heart there’s always a chance." He bends down to get a closer look. "How long has he been dead?"

"A few hours, best we can tell. You'll have to wait for the autopsy to find out more."

Sherlock mutters something unintelligible under his breath and unashamedly grabs the man's trousers, yanking them down. Lestrade starts, like he might try to stop him, but in the end just looks away awkwardly as Sherlock curtly examines the alpha's cock. As expected, there are signs that the man has been in an omega recently. His knot is still visible, lightly swollen, though not to the degree that he would have thought. Interesting. He straightens up slowly, his mind racing to put the clues together. Normally omegas don't fight back against their alphas, but an unbonded omega is a different story entirely. 

"There was an omega here," he says abruptly.

"He's not bonded," Donovan says immediately.

"Did you learn nothing from the last case?" Sherlock says, exasperated. "There are omegas in the world that enjoy having sex with alphas not their destined." 

Donovan looks disturbed by this and for a split second Sherlock thinks she's going to make some asinine protest, like the fact that it hurts any omega foolish enough to do that. But she bites her lip and swallows whatever comment she's about to come out with and it's just as well because Sherlock's not in the mood to hear it, not when he has a case that may actually prove to be somewhat fascinating. He moves away from the bed, sweeping his eyes over the rest of the room. It's messy but there is some organization to the clutter, except... He lets out a low, thoughtful sound. Except where there is clear sign of a struggle. He checks the desk drawer, the dresser, and finally finds what he's looking for under the bed. The mobile phone.

"There was a scuffle," he says, more to himself than to anyone else. That would account for the tangled sheets and bruising on the victim's jaw and eye. He'd fought with his attacker. Likely a male, then. The alpha is tall and husky and most women would have had difficulty subduing him. Were they fighting over the phone? Or did the alpha slide it under the bed as... as what? A sign to the police? Sherlock needs more data.

In one crisp movement he slides the phone open and lets it boot up. The screen lights up and he checks the last texts sent automatically, disregarding the ones that are from or to family (mother, brother, little sister) or friends that don't match (female co-worker, female friend, female friend) until he finds what he's looking for. A text to a man, sent some time last week, suggesting that they get together for what the alpha calls 'that time of the month'. There is a curt, one word confirmation from the omega and that's it. Sherlock checks the man's contact list and finds a name. It's unfamiliar to him but at least it's a lead.

"Well?" Lestrade says.

"I may have a suspect for you," Sherlock says, glancing up. "His name is John Watson."


	3. Chapter 3

He’s just come back from a walk around the park when he finds them standing at his door. The police cars down in the alley hadn’t alarmed him - this is the only neighbourhood John can afford and it’s not a good one - but finding two men, one tall and lanky with a shock of black curls, the other a bit shorter but still taller than John with silvery hair, waiting for him to return home does. The bloke with the silver hair is the one knocking on the door and he seems a bit frustrated at not receiving an answer. Neither of them looks familiar and something inside of John tenses and makes him wish he had the gun stored securely in his bedside table.

“Can I help you?” he asks, hand tightening around the head of his cane as they both swing around to face him. They look like regular coppers but he’s been fooled before. He’ll beat them both bloody if they take a wrong step towards him.

Silver Hair seems to recognize this because he holds both hands up in a placating way. “I’m Detective Inspector Lestrade,” he says. His voice is husky, homey, bordering on comforting. Could easily dip either way, stern or gentle. “My… ah, colleague and I are looking for John Watson. Are you him?” As he speaks he reaches into an inside pocket of his coat and slowly pulls out a badge, offering it to John the way one might offer a skittish animal a handful of food.

John glances at it briefly, notes the little things that make it genuine, and relaxes slightly. “Yes, that’s me.” 

“We’d like to talk to you,” Lestrade says.

Supposing that means they want to come in, John shuffles closer, pulling his key out. That brings him in range of their scents and he automatically takes a deep breath. To his surprise Lestrade is an omega - John has to wonder how in the world the man managed to pull that off - and his nameless colleague is unquestionably an alpha. He shutters off to the side a step, staying well out of reach as he unlocks the door and nudges it open. He’s past the point where he finds it embarrassing to show off his pitiful little flat. This is his life now and he doesn’t see how it’s going to change.

The door opens straight into his bedroom. The curly-haired bloke looks around once and then disappears into the bathroom. John turns to face Lestrade, unconsciously shifting his weight to make it a bit easier to bear. He doesn’t like sitting down when everyone around him is standing. “Well?” he says.

“I believe you know a… Sebastian Wilkes?” Lestrade opens a little notebook and then peers at him. “Or Seb, as I believe his friends say he's called.”

Ice curls in John’s stomach. “I know him,” he says, not letting on how much it bothers him to hear that name. “Wilkes is a…” He pauses and lets his eyes flick towards the bathroom before concluding, “a colleague of mine.”

Lestrade looks uneasy. “What is the nature of your relationship with him?”

“Are you trying to ask if we've ever fucked?” John asks, amused by the inspector’s discomfort. He’s not proud of what he’s done but that’s the way of it. Life isn’t fair for omegas in a world mostly populated by betas and run by alphas. He’d got by in the army on suppressants but those were military-grade and they aren’t available for the general population, which makes finding a job nearly impossible even if he didn’t have a bad shoulder and leg and a tremor in his hand. He wonders if Lestrade’s somehow got access to some. 

“Yes,” Lestrade says, apparently deciding it’s easiest if he goes the direct route. “Did you and Mr Wilkes engage in a sexual relationship?”

“We have, though I’m not sure relationship is the word for it.” The idea amuses John. Wilkes is a wanker, pure and simple; a git who runs on mummy’s money and daddy’s coattails until the world just sort of assumes he’s worthwhile even when he’s not. But he had the money, every month on the dot, and in the end that was worth more.

“And are you aware that he’s dead?”

John supposes he should’ve seen this coming from the moment the police turned up but somehow he didn’t. The news fills him with a fierce, cold panic that claws at his throat, rendering him temporarily mute. His first thought is not of Wilkes or his family but of how John will pay the rent next month. He’s only just gotten used to Wilkes and the idea of trying to find a new alpha who won’t try to force the bond seems impossible. Someone grabs his shoulder, hard, and leads him over to his bed, pushing him down without giving him the opportunity to protest or try to twist away. A cold hand grips his chin and forces him to look up.

Dark pupils surrounded by unnaturally pale colour, a shifting mass of silverbluegreen that seems to make no discernible sense, are what greet him. John stares back, bemused, and doesn’t move as the tall bloke looks him over carefully. After a solid minute of silence, spent with their faces so close that John can feel the man’s breath against his cheek every few seconds, the man straightens up and releases John, his arms falling back to his sides. He makes a thoughtful sound in the back of his throat as he glances again around the room, and then abruptly he spins around and strides out of the flat.

“What the – Sherlock!” Lestrade sputters uselessly. “Sherlock, come back here!”

Sherlock. The name is unfamiliar to John and means nothing. He watches with some amusement as Lestrade looks between him and the door before finally stalking over to the door, cursing softly, only to stick his head out into the hall and call uselessly after that man – Sherlock. Somehow John thinks that Lestrade is going to be ignored. Sherlock doesn’t strike him as the sort of person who is willing to listen to anyone. A lot of alphas are like that, bloody great cats that the whole lot of them are, can’t tell them nothing – 

John’s thoughts stutter to a stop as a realization dawns on him. It’s been a long time since any alpha could touch him without it itching, an edgy feeling that borders on hurt. But when Sherlock touched him, it felt like they might as well have been two omegas. He doesn’t know what that means.

He’s glad Sherlock’s gone because he’s not sure he wants to find out.


	4. Chapter 4

Lestrade, for all that he can be a decent cop, is actually pretty poor when it comes to tracking someone down. Sherlock watches with no small amount of smugness from the window of the cafe across the street as Lestrade appears on the pavement and strides over to his car. He takes his phone out and puts it up to his ear and, moments later, Sherlock's phone starts to ring. He ignores it as Lestrade gets in the car and drives off. If Lestrade had bothered to look around he might have seen Sherlock, but since he didn't the way is clear. Ignoring the waitress that's been glaring at him for the past half hour, Sherlock stands up and leaves the cafe, striding back across the street towards the building. Now he'll be able to question John on his own terms without worrying about Lestrade's annoying presence.

He's just about to enter when he notices something out of the corner of his eye. A tall bloke, broad in the shoulders, brown hair, approximately forty years old, military, judging by the stiff way he's holding himself. Standing beside him is a smaller man, a few inches shorter than Sherlock, with dark hair and a little smirk on his face. They're both standing across the street just staring at him and it's disorienting, odd, especially when he realizes that he can't get a read on either one of them. But when he turns to face them they both duck into an alley and he's left wondering what's more important, chasing after them or questioning John, and in the end he decides that talking to John and gathering data counts more. 

John is not pleased to see him.

"What do you want?" he asks with a heavy sigh, his brisk manner bordering on rude. "Only I've just shown your friend out."

"I don't have friends," Sherlock says, pushing the door open. Once again he's met by the appallingly small flat. It tells him everything he needs to know about John. Mid-thirties, serious girlfriend (a beta) before joining the army but she left him when he signed up, still has pain in his shoulder and dreadful nightmares, can't get a job but refuses to draw on charity for help, unbonded. He looks intently at John. "Wilkes never tried to force a bond with you. Why is that?"

Surprise flickers in John's face. "How do you know that?"

"I knew him." They'd met, briefly, back in uni. Sherlock had always avoided men who thought they were god's gift and he knows that Wilkes is no exception to that. Having a bonded omega is a bit of a status thing for alphas and he's certain that Wilkes would've forced the issue if he'd thought he had a chance. 

"Then you should know he wouldn't want someone damaged." John gives a one shoulder shrug. "I was no use to him beyond what we did every month. I think I explained this all to your... your colleague. Now if you don't mind..."

"I do." He puts a hand out to keep the door from closing. "I know you, John Watson. You're a military doctor. It's rare for omegas to be allowed into the army but they were so desperate for medical personnel that they were willing to overlook that as long as you took your suppressants. When you were shot they decided that it was too much of a risk to keep you around. Maybe it was because the suppressants interfered with your other medication or maybe it was because they felt you wouldn't be able to protect yourself against an alpha who got too pushy." Sherlock studies him with narrowed eyes. "You've got no family around London, or at least none that you're willing to go to for help. You're a proud man and your parents taught you to make your own way in the world. You're unbonded but you were surprised when I touched you; you think that you don't have a mate."

For a moment John just looks at him and blinks. "That was amazing," he says at last, and then he smiles, a crooked little twitch of one lip. "Except for one thing. It's not that I don't have a mate. Everyone does, I believe the lore. It's that I wouldn't know how to find him or her even if I tried."

Sherlock cocks his head, intrigued. "There's always something," he murmurs, and now he's curious to know _why_ John is unable to find his mate. Every omega, alpha and beta is born with the innate ability to sense their mate. It takes something seriously traumatic to break that ability and it would take time for Sherlock to be able to deduce what that is since he doubts John is going to just tell him.

"Look, Sherlock, was it?" John folds his arms. "I wish I could be of more help to you but I haven't seen Wilkes in nearly a week. We weren't going to meet again until the next time I went into heat, and even then I only stay with him until our business was complete. I have no idea who would have wanted him dead but I can tell you that he wasn't a very nice person so I can only assume that the list must be a long one. You do have your work cut out for you."

"Indeed," Sherlock agrees, smirking. John isn’t the killer, he knows, even though John had the ability to do it right down to the gun hidden in his bedside table. "That's what makes it fun."

Before John can respond he spins away, darting down the hall and taking the steps two at a time. His mind is buzzing with information about John Watson, who is proving to be a lot more interesting than Sherlock had first assumed he would be: a human puzzle that he can sink his teeth into, one that might actually change enough to be intriguing. It's a pity that John isn't the murderer because at least that would give him the excuse to know everything there is to know about him. He throws a hand up to summon a cab and twists, peering up at the window as one pulls up to the kerb. Sure enough, he sees the curtains flutter just about where John's flat would be. Without thinking he gives a sharp nod before climbing inside.

"The bank," he says to the driver, rattling off an address. He knows Lestrade is probably back at the Yard by now and they'll meet up later when Sherlock requires it. For now Sherlock needs to put his mind towards solving the case and, regrettably, that means pushing John Watson aside, possibly for good.


	5. Chapter 5

For the next few days John doesn’t hear anything about Wilkes or the investigation that’s being done into his death. He convinces himself that it’s a good thing, even though part of him continues to wonder about Sherlock Holmes. Against his better judgement he does a search on the internet and finds the man’s website, _The Science of Deduction_. It explains a lot and at least now he feels fairly confident that Holmes isn’t some strange stalker. John’s had enough of those in his life and he has no desire to ever meet up with any more. He reads the whole site, every last article, even the ones that are boring (who needs to know about so many different kinds of tobacco ash?) and when he’s done he decides it’s best to put the whole encounter out of his mind.

He begins directing his attention towards finding a new alpha. His heat is about two weeks away and he won’t have enough funds to last him much past that. It’s a delicate act: many alphas are eager for the opportunity to mount an omega, even one like John, but they can be dangerous. John was always confident of his ability to take Wilkes down if the man ever overstepped the boundaries and he needs to find another alpha like that. It proves to be the sort of thing that's easier said than done and he spends a few days searching through dating sites and wandering through a good portion of London before he finds the alpha he thinks will do. Henry Knight is a nervous man but he smiles charmingly at John the first time they meet in the middle of Tesco's and John thinks he could do quite nicely.

Of course, _of course_ it all goes to hell when not less than two days later he opens up his door to find Detective Inspector Lestrade standing on his doorstep again. Instinctively John looks for Holmes but there's no sign of him. Instead Lestrade is flanked by a woman with dark hair and cold eyes. A beta, judging by the scent, and not a very happy one at that. Her arms are tightly folded and she looks at John like he's somehow turned into something revolting without his notice. Just to disarm her he sends her a polite smile and leans all the more heavily against his cane.

"Detective," he says. "What can I do for you?"

"Do you know a Mr Henry Knight?" Lestrade asks grimly. Christ. John's stomach twists and he thinks that Lestrade must see the answer without it being spoken because he nods and says, "We'd like you to come down to the station and answer a few questions for us, Mr Watson, if you wouldn't mind."

"It's Doctor Watson," John says without thinking. Not that it really matters since he can't remember the last time he actually took care of someone. There's no point in not going along with them - he barely knew Henry, only spoke to the man a handful of times, and they were only just broaching the idea of spending John's next heat together - so he fetches his jacket and pulls it on, mindful of his shoulder.

The drive to the Met is not a long one and John promptly finds himself seated in a tidy little room with Lestrade across from him. There's a stack of files on the desk and John's pretty sure he knows what they hold. It doesn't surprise him in the least when Lestrade picks up one of them and pulls out a handful of photos. They're of two separate crime scenes, one of Sebastian Wilkes and one of Henry Knight. Both men died the same way, that much is clear at a glance, but Henry's body was mutilated in a way that Wilkes's wasn't. His penis was cut off. In spite of all the things he's seen John grimaces and has to look away because that's crossing a line of gruesome even for him.

"You can see why we're anxious to find the person doing this," says Lestrade. "As far as we can see you're the only factor that ties these two men together, Doctor Watson. Other than you they had entirely different circles of work and friends. Didn't even live in the same city." He folds his hands together. "Now I'm not saying that you've had anything to do with this. Frankly I rather think you didn't. But I do think there are some things that you may not be sharing with us and if that's so then now is the time to do it."

John is still staring at one of the photos. He feels sick. "Do I have to talk to you?" he asks.

Lestrade looks a little surprised. "Well... not if you don't want to. Is there someone else? Sergeant Donovan, perhaps?"

"Holmes," John says through a mouth that's suddenly gone too dry. "Sherlock Holmes."

The look on Lestrade's face is priceless. "You want to talk to _Sherlock Holmes_?" he repeats in utter disbelief.

"That's right. You said he was your colleague, right?" John tears his eyes away and looks across the table. Lestrade's a simple police detective and John doesn't want him to get caught up in this. From what he's read about that bloke Holmes, he seems to live for things like this, and maybe he’s the one person who can stop things before they go too far. God John hopes that he can. He clenches his hands into nervous fists.

"Well, yes," Lestrade says reluctantly. He doesn't move, though. "Doctor Watson, I really have to advise you against - "

"Please," John interrupts him. "I need to speak to Holmes. If I'm... if I'm right, there's a good chance that someone else could be next and that it might happen soon." The very thought of it is enough to make him want to vomit. When he left Afghanistan he had dared to hope that it might be over, that the horrifying dreams that still haunt him at night would never be anything more, but now it seems that this has followed him all the way to London... and he doesn't want anyone else to suffer. "Please, will you get him for me?"

A little frown tugs at Lestrade's face but he nods, seemingly understanding John's urgency. "Alright, Doctor Watson, I'll call him right now," he says gently. "You wait right here, okay?"

John just nods, too weary and upset to be bothered by the tone that he's used with a fair amount of patients himself. He returns his eyes to the picture of Henry Knight and immediately his gaze is drawn back to the little marking on Henry's navel, right above where his penis would have been. No doubt it’s boggled the police but John knows exactly what it means. Two initials have been burned deeply into that spot. For a split second he remembers the smell of burning flesh and shudders. SM. Sebastian Moran.


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock is standing in front of the window when he gets the text from Lestrade. He's playing his violin and thinking furiously about the possible connections between John Watson, Henry Knight and Sebastian Wilkes. So much for pushing John out of his mind entirely. Lestrade's a bit too keen on questioning the army doctor about whether or not he knows anything and for once Sherlock doesn't mind that Lestrade has purposely left him out, mostly because he's fairly confident that John's not going to tell them much. And when he hears the familiar beep of his phone and he picks it up to check the screen, a smirk spreads across his face when it seems that his suspicions are indeed confirmed. 

Watson wants to talk to you. - GL

Interesting. It's unlikely that Lestrade would be the one bringing him in so that means John really does want to talk specifically to him. Knowing that it must be driving Lestrade mad, Sherlock types back a reply and carefully puts his violin away before seizing his coat. It's a marked sign of his interest in the case that he gets all the way down the stairs before he notices the tell-tale black car that has pulled up to the kerb. His immediate instinct is to walk in the opposite direction. They wouldn't be able to do anything to him, not really, but he knows that if he does Mycroft will be even more insufferable than he already is. Loudly having a put-upon sigh when the door opens and Anthea gets out, Sherlock strides over to the car and gracefully slides inside, unsurprised to see that his brother is already waiting for him.

"I suppose you're not here just to offer me a ride to Scotland Yard," he says unenthusiastically, staring pointedly out the window. 

"I have better things to do than to drive you around London," Mycroft says. His umbrella is resting beside him on the seat and he's working hard at being patient. "I came to inquire about the new case you're working on."

"Why?" Curiosity piqued, Sherlock sends him a sharp look. Mycroft never cares about anything unless it directly benefits him in some way. He automatically scans the details of the two murders but he can't see anything that would mean something to his brother. Therefore there is data that he is missing which Mycroft has access to. Unacceptable. He leans forward, knitting his fingers together. "What could cause you to leave your brand new desk chair and come visit me?"

"Leave it," Mycroft tells him. For a moment Sherlock just frowns, and then Mycroft adds, "The case, I mean. I want you to stop working on it. Do not approach Doctor Watson again, Sherlock."

Sherlock raises an eyebrow, genuinely surprised and then suspicious. "I'm not taking any of your cases."

"I have no cases to offer you. But if it would get you to agree to stay away from Watson then I would happily give you something," says Mycroft. His gaze is penetrating but there's something _off_ about it. "There are things about this situation that are outside of your understanding, Sherlock. I'm concerned that if you push the matter you may become too deeply involved."

There’s a long moment during which Sherlock just stares at his brother. Mycroft doesn’t come to see him unless he has a reason. From what Sherlock has seen of John Watson - and he has seen a lot just from the flat and the man himself - there is nothing about the good doctor that could pose a threat, which means there is something behind the scenes that is posing enough of a difficulty for Mycroft to get off his arse and stick his nose in. And he must have only recently found out since he encouraged Sherlock to take the case in the first place. There’s only one person who could put Mycroft off his game even a little. He sits back, resting his arms on his knees, and Mycroft lets out an aggrieved sigh.

“Moriarty,” Sherlock says. Just saying the name is enough to send a combined shiver of apprehension and excitement up his spine.

“Yes,” Mycroft allows reluctantly. “There are signs that Moriarty may have had a hand in this. We’re not sure of what his connection to John Watson is yet. I have men working on it but there are parts of his service record that are sealed.” He looks across at his brother. “What will it take for you to back away from the case?”

“More than you can afford,” says Sherlock absently. He’s never met Moriarty face to face, not yet. But they’ve danced a few rounds before. Moriarty is dangerous in a way that Sherlock’s not fully used to. He’s a genius, yes, but there is a glint of madness in him that’s fascinating. It worries Mycroft, though he’s never come right out and said it, that Sherlock is _too_ interested, that he might be taken over to the ‘dark side’. But If John Watson is affiliated with Moriarty in any way, even if it’s just to have caught Moriarty’s attention, well. Now Sherlock wants to talk to the man even more than he did before. 

“Sherlock…”

“Don’t even bother, Mycroft,” he says. “This is one case that I intend to see through until the end.”

Mycroft shakes his head a little as the car pulls up in front of the Met. “At least try to be careful.”

With a smirk Sherlock launches himself out of the car, not bothering to respond, and strides through the doors of NSY. Lestrade is waiting for him just inside, looking tense. As soon as he sees Sherlock, the first words out of his mouth are, “Try not to be yourself.”

“Is that the advice you give everyone?” Sherlock says, walking right past him. He can deduce which room John is in with no problem. Lestrade would have wanted the doctor to be at ease, ergo, one of the smaller rooms up on the third floor. He heads for the stairs and Lestrade chases after him.

“No, just the advice I give you. We want Watson to open up,” says Lestrade. “Don’t insult him.” He stops and then shakes his head. “What am I saying? Just try not to piss him off completely.”

“Noted.” Sherlock opens the door. John jumps and looks up at him, eyes wide. His shoulders were slumped but as soon as he registered the door opening he’d tensed and his hand had gone to his side, where a gun would normally be carried. Interesting. Sherlock enters the room and shuts the door in Lestrade’s face. He takes a seat across from John and stares at him. Most people go from relaxed to tense under the force his stare, but John is just the opposite: the longer Sherlock stares, the more he relaxes. And finally, when John is at ease as he’s going to get, Sherlock says, “Begin.”


	7. Chapter 7

"When I was in Afghanistan, I was a military doctor," John says. "That's the truth. You were right about that. For the most part I was skilled enough in what I did to be kept away from the frontlines. I did a lot of surgery work. Amputations, removing shrapnel, caring for soldiers, that sort of thing." For a split second the memories engulf him. During those tense moments it hadn't mattered that he was an omega treating alphas. He'd had the power to save lives and he'd been damn good at it. He sighs and looks up, meeting Sherlock's penetrating gaze. "The base that I was stationed at was attacked. Some of the medics ran for it but I didn't feel right about leaving the wounded men behind so I stayed." Sometimes he still wonders whether or not he made the right choice on that day.

Sherlock nods. "Of course you did," he murmurs, lacing his fingers together. His eyes are bright, sharp, and in this room it's just the two of them and John can almost forget about what's happening outside. He realizes that he's leaning forward, his body tilting unconsciously towards Sherlock, seeking protection or comfort or both, and that confuses him so much he immediately sits up straight and glances away.

"We were captured, those of us that remained alive after the initial fight," he explains slowly. This is harder than he'd expected. He's never told anyone what happened, not even his therapist. It's been his own awful secret. "It was only afterwards that we realized that some of the men had turned on us. One of them... his name was Sebastian Moran. He was a Colonel, an excellent sniper, and he... well to be frank I'm not sure why he chose to do what he did. Got bored, maybe." He forces a little laugh. "He took a fascination with me and after that he killed anyone who so much as looked in my direction."

And just like that Sherlock puts it together. It's evident that he's worked it out just from the way his body stiffens slightly. John sighs and rubs a hand over his face. He doesn't like to think about those nights, the ones when Moran had pinned him down and taken him repeatedly, trying to force a bond that would never work even if he had been John's true alpha. John doesn't even remember his heats; those nightmarish moments when his body longed to be fucked while his mind was repelled by what was happening have been mercifully blocked out by the sheer trauma. But it lingers with him enough that he hasn't enjoyed a heat since he returned and they're nothing like what they used to be.

He clears his throat awkwardly. "Well... after about a month or so I and a few of the men managed to escape. We found our way back to safety and shortly after that I was invalided home. I was shot in the shoulder." He makes an awkward gesture to the shoulder in question. Most people assume that he hates the bullet wound in his arm, but really John doesn't mind; he'll gladly accept the stiffness and occasional pain over one more second with Moran. "I thought that would be it. I suppose I'd hoped that Moran had been killed during the rest of the war. But now..."

"You believe he followed you here, quite correctly I'm afraid," says Sherlock. "He's eliminating the competition. Trying to prove that he's the alpha who can best take care of you." There's a hint of scorn in his voice. 

"Yeah, that sounds about right," John says quietly. He looks down at the pictures again and squeezes his hand into a fist. God. Just the thought of being around Moran is enough to make him want to fetch his gun and stick it in his mouth. He'd promised himself on the night that they made a run for it that if they got captured again he would kill himself rather than go back to Moran. He doesn't think that's changed. Even now he can still feel the cold impression of Moran's fingers on his hips, the harsh, jarring grate of a bond that refuses to form, the headaches that would linger for days after the failed attempts, the humiliation of being taken and knowing that even though he didn't want the bond to form he still felt ashamed that it wouldn't, like he was somehow failing...

"John. _John_."

Belatedly he realizes that Sherlock is speaking to him. "Sorry, what?"

"You're hyperventilating." Sherlock has moved at some point and is now standing beside him. John turns towards him almost blindly and is relieved when a warm, firm hand grips his flailing hands, grounding him in reality, keeping the past from overwhelming him. He takes a deep breath, realizing that his lungs actually ache from a lack of proper air, and stares up into unnaturally bright eyes. Sherlock doesn’t move, just stays where he is, and eventually the disorienting feeling of panic lessens and starts to ease.

“Sorry,” he says. “I – sorry.” He looks down at their hands and tries to make himself let go but his body doesn’t want to cooperate. This close he can smell Sherlock’s natural scent and it’s oddly comforting, soothing. It’s been a long time since anyone touched him like this and he wants to keep holding on, wants to go a step further, even, and tuck himself into Sherlock’s great coat. He tells himself that this is only happening because Sherlock is an alpha and his natural protective instincts have kicked in and _makes_ himself let go. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine.” There’s an unidentifiable expression on Sherlock’s face. “This bloke Moran... how long will it be before he comes after you?”

“I don’t know. Probably not long. He’s not... very patient.”

“I see. Do you mind the violin?”

“I... what?” John just looks at him, bewildered by the change in conversation.

“I play the violin when I’m thinking and sometimes I don’t talk for days on end. Since you’ll be coming home with me I thought you might like to know,” Sherlock says.

John stares. He doesn’t remember agreeing to that and as attractive as the idea sounds he doesn’t have the money for a flatshare. “That’s – ”

“John. You’re coming home with me,” Sherlock says and there is no room for argument in his voice.

“Okay,” John says, shaken but undeniably relieved. “Okay.”


	8. Chapter 8

Having John at Baker Street turns out to be significantly less annoying than Sherlock is expecting. He’s had flatmates before and most of them didn’t last for more than a couple of days, a week at the most, before they went screaming out the door, sometimes literally. John, though, proves to be different. He doesn’t mind the macabre things that Sherlock leaves lying around, even when they’re in the refrigerator by the food, just shakes his head with faint exasperation and pushes past them to get to said food. He doesn’t complain about the violin or Sherlock’s prolonged period of silences. He doesn’t seem overly threatened by living with an alpha either, considering how firm he is about Sherlock eating every once in a while.

And the fact that he smells intoxicating doesn’t hurt.

He’s nervous, though, and that doesn’t escape Sherlock’s notice. Every time someone comes to the door John goes all tense, like he’s not sure whether fight or flight is the appropriate reaction, and he’s not sleeping well at night. The handful of times that Sherlock has fallen asleep he’s been awakened by the sound of John crying out in terror. Ironically the sound of the violin seems to soothe him and once or twice John has come down into the room and curled up on the sofa and let either the music or Sherlock’s presence or both soothe him back to sleep.

Overall it works and he finds, much to his amazement, that he is actually _enjoying_ having Doctor John Watson live with him. The fact that it may well bring both Moran and Moriarty in their direction is only a bonus. Of course, the first time he says as much out loud John looks up at him with an expression that says he thinks Sherlock has lost his mind.

“Oh don’t look like that,” Sherlock says impatiently, polishing his bow. From what he knows about Moriarty, the man is never one to miss out on anything that strikes him as amusing and/or profitable. Mycroft’s suspicion about a connection between Moriarty and John is a little too convenient but it makes sense if Moran proves to be the missing link. Moriarty is, after all, a consulting criminal and thus he’s just the kind of man who could sneak a soldier home and provide him with everything he needed to get a hold of an omega. If Sherlock plays the game right - and he always does - he knows that there’s a chance they can get Moran and Moriarty in one fell swoop. Predictably, John has not reacted favourably to this cunning plan.

“You’re crazy,” John says, horrified. “A raving lunatic. You don’t even know if the two of them are connected!”

John is afraid and Sherlock doesn’t like it. He’s not entirely comfortable with the fact that there is something in him that wants to protect John at all costs, something that wants to rip Moran apart for having dared to touch John, for frightening him, and then kill Moriarty just for being guilty of having helped. Every flinch, every whimper in the dead of the night, only seems to make the urge that much stronger. It’s annoying and he doesn’t understand it or know what to do with it, so he’s trying his best to ignore it. He twists and looks at John. “I know,” he says simply, as loftily as he can manage.

“Maybe I shouldn’t have – ” Cutting himself off, John just shakes his head. He looks very old and very tired and Sherlock has discovered that he doesn’t like seeing John this way. 

“You’re thinking that you shouldn’t have involved me,” he says, placing his bow down carefully. “You think that you should’ve talked your way out of the Yard and dealt with it on your own. Admirable but I can tell you right now that it wouldn’t have worked. You’re only here because Lestrade trusts me to keep an eye on you. He knows that you won’t be able to sneak out and murder anyone on my watch.”

“Donovan probably thinks you’re helping,” John mutters.

Sherlock smirks. “Undoubtedly. Had you not asked to speak with me, John, you would’ve remained at the Yard until they had no more questions to ask. Then you would have left and returned home, seeking another alpha, and Moran would’ve come for you, possibly after murdering someone else.” He watches as John shudders at the thought and feels – off. Before he knows it he’s adding, “But you know he can’t get to you here, right?”

“I...” John breaks off for a second time. He swallows hard. “Sherlock.”

“I don’t like other alphas nosing into my territory, which is where you are,” Sherlock says briskly, not wanting John to get the wrong idea. He doesn’t have an interest in an omega. Biology is nothing short of ridiculous and he refuses to fall prey to the baser instincts. “Moran will likely make his move during your next heat. We will be ready for him.”

“That’s... right, thanks.” John lets out a shaky breath. “It will be good to not have to worry about him anymore. Then I won’t have to intrude on your space.”

“Right,” Sherlock says and pointedly ignores the fact that the thought of John moving out is enough to make his stomach hurt. He turns back to his violin and listens with one ear as John stands up and starts to shuffle into the kitchen. “We should go out.”

“What?”

“Go out. You haven’t left the flat in a week. We need to make sure Moran knows where to find you.”

The thought seems to freeze John to the spot. “Where do you think I should go?”

“ _We_ ” Sherlock purposely stresses the word “will go to the Yard. Lestrade hasn’t contacted me for a while and I need to make sure that he is still proceeding with the directions that I left him.” He watches John carefully and can practically see the indecision in his face. John is a soldier and the idea of hiding in the flat is no doubt bothering him. But at the same time he’s an omega and there is a dangerous alpha searching for him. Those two parts of him are at war. Sherlock decides the winner for him by grabbing John’s coat and guiding first one arm and then the other into the sleeves. He puts on his own coat and places a possessive hand on John’s lower back, ushering him towards the door, pretending that he doesn’t enjoy the way John subtly leans into him. “Come on, let’s go.”


	9. Chapter 9

Watching Sherlock Holmes move through the Yard is, John thinks, one of those things that will never get boring. He’s only seen it happen twice, but seeing countless officers scurrying out of the way lest they be the unfortunate soul who draws the detective’s ire is far too amusing. It’s almost enough to make him forget about the fact that Moran could be anywhere. Almost. He sticks close to Sherlock as they make their way up to Lestrade’s office. Sherlock doesn’t bother to knock, just shoves the door open and sweeps in like he has every right to be there. John, moderately more polite, hovers uncomfortably in the doorway.

The office is empty, though, and an impatient _look_ from Sherlock is enough to make him step into the room and close the door behind him. They can easily be seen considering the glass walls but somehow it still feels good to be in an enclosed space with Sherlock. After a solid week of being surrounded by the man’s scent John can no longer deny that he finds it comforting, probably more than he should. It’s less concentrated here than at Baker Street, of course, but it’s still enough to make him feel a little more at ease and he relaxes a fraction as he moves closer to Sherlock, who is already bent over the computer.

“Anything?” he asks, unperturbed to see Sherlock easily hacking into Lestrade’s computer. Even though Lestrade is trying to prove him guilty of two counts of murder John can’t help but feel sorry for him. Working with Sherlock can’t be anything other than a bloody nightmare.

“My opinion of Lestrade’s computer skills have not changed,” Sherlock says, his fingers flying over the keys. John smirks and shoves his hands into his pockets, gazing at the files that are stacked high on one of the nearby shelves. He jumps when the door opens and spins, hand instinctively moving to draw a gun that isn’t there, but it’s only Lestrade. He takes one look at Sherlock and groans.

“Bloody hell, Sherlock, if you’re poking around my files again…”

“I’m not ‘poking around’,” Sherlock says indignantly. “I’m searching for information. I suppose it’s too much to hope that you would know the difference.” The comment holds none of his usual ire; he’s utterly captivated by whatever he’s found. Lestrade just sighs and runs a hand through his already mussed hair. 

“Since you’re going to see it I suppose I should just tell you,” he says wearily. “There’s been another one.” He looks up at John. “I’m guessing that you know of an Irene Adler?”

Something in John’s stomach goes stiff and cold and he tries to speak, to confirm Lestrade’s guess, but the words catch in his throat and go stale. Yes, yes he knows her. He’d considered her seriously as an option when she initially approached him but she hadn’t seemed quite right. There had been something about her slick, confident smile that made him apprehensive about his ability to handle her even though she was a lot smaller than he was. There’s no doubt in John’s mind that Irene would have fought anyone who attacked her. He hopes that she made Sebastian Moran hurt. 

Lestrade nods and says, “We found blood that wasn’t hers at the scene and we’ve done a search on it but no names have come up.”

“As expected. Why didn’t you call me to look at the scene?” Sherlock demands.

“You know why. You wanted John and you got him but you can’t have it both ways. He’s still a suspect,” Lestrade replies. “In fact, I was going to ask for a sample - ”

“Oh please. John is not your man and you are going about this investigation all wrong, though that shouldn’t surprise me. The culprit is a military man by the name of Sebastian Moran. Talk to my brother. I’m sure he can tell you all about him.” One corner of his lip curling up in a sneer, Sherlock leans back and steeples his fingers. “Irene would’ve been your next choice after Henry. Now that you’ve moved in with me, I’ll be Moran’s target.”

“What?” John cries.

“Sherlock!” Lestrade says at the same time.

“He’s eliminating alphas that you might develop a long term interest in. The only reason he hasn’t come for me yet, well…” Sherlock trails off and tilts his head and just like that John knows the answer. Moriarty. Sherlock has told him briefly about the obsession Moriarty has with him, though he hasn’t gone into detail yet. If Moran and Moriarty are working together there’s undoubtedly some conflict there… or they could be working together to ensure that each man gets what he wants. John isn’t sure which prospect is more chilling.

“So you set yourself up as bait,” Lestrade says through gritted teeth, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Against a serial killer who has murdered three alphas.”

Sherlock shrugs. “It seemed like the easiest way to draw him in.”

“You…” John can’t even speak past the anger clawing his throat. He does the next best thing and walks out of the room as quickly as he can, his cane thumping heavily against the floor. The building is unfamiliar to him but he remembers the way they came in and he’s almost to the doors when Sherlock catches up and stops him with a hand to John’s shoulder. The familiar scent is the only thing that saves him from getting an elbow to the stomach.

“You’re angry,” Sherlock says, drawing close enough that the material of their coats brushes together.

“Brilliant,” John says, the word choking him. He twists around but doesn’t step back. “You… what’s _wrong_ with you? I thought at first that you were just… but then you…” Helplessly he shakes his head. “Don’t you care about what he could do to you? Moran could… he would…”

“John.” Sherlock’s voice is very soft and he dips his head. Almost unconsciously, John tilts his own head to the side, allowing Sherlock’s nose to brush against his neck. This is the sort of thing that would’ve sent him into a panic with anyone, much less an alpha, before but with Sherlock it’s different. With Sherlock he doesn’t feel threatened. He feels safe.

“You will be careful,” he says and it’s not a request.

“Of course. I have a plan, John, and it’s going to work out perfectly,” Sherlock promises. His greyish eyes are glittering and there’s a small smile on his face. He looks a mischievous child with a secret.

And damn the man, in spite of it all, John can’t help but believe him.


	10. Chapter 10

It only takes another two days before Moran and Moriarty make their move. It's to be expected, really, considering that John only has another day before his heat is set to kick in. Already he's been complaining of a noticeable difference in temperature and he's become fidgety, for lack of a better word. He can't seem to get comfortable in the flat, wandering aimlessly from his bedroom to whatever room Sherlock is in (usually he's on the sofa) to the kitchen and back again. His appetite has decreased and his shoulder pains him more as he becomes more aware of his body. All signs that point to an omega's oncoming heat, which means it won't be long. Moran has undoubtedly been keeping track. Sherlock isn't wholly certain what they will do but he knows it's coming.

In spite of that, he's still not expecting to wake up in an upright position in a chair that has a hard back, hands tied tightly behind his back with rope, not handcuffs, meaning he won't be able to pick his way free. It takes a ridiculously long amount of time for him to assess that his ankles are also tied together. His head aches with a slow throb that sends pain sparking down his neck, and even though he's trying to keep his breathing calm and steady he can't help the slight hitch. Drugged, apparently, but he's also been hit at some point with something that was hard enough to break the skin.

"I know you're awake, Sherlock." The voice is male and soft, a little high-pitched, completely familiar. Moriarty. Sherlock has to keep himself loose as he opens his eyes and looks up because the urge to punch the man is nearly overwhelming. Moving is enough to make his vision blur and his head spin but he ignores it, focusing as best he can on the man standing in front of him. Small, dark hair, wearing an expensive suit. Moriarty's smile widens at the perusal. "There you are. I've been waiting for you to join us."

Sherlock glances past him and something tight curls in his stomach. John is also tied up but in a fundamentally different way. For one thing he's stark naked. His hands and ankles have been tied to the opposing corners of a bed, leaving him spread-eagled and incapable of defending himself. A pillow has been placed under his hips to slightly elevate his lower body, the better for someone to mount. He's still unconscious but even from this distance Sherlock can tell that his heat is growing closer. The warm heady smell calls to him, an invitation that his body yearns to accept. With visible effort he switches his gaze back to Moriarty, who is grinning.

"Yes, yes, we brought the little pet along too," he says. "Wouldn't want to leave him without a master for long. They get too... unwieldy when that happens, don't you agree, Seb?"

Sebastian Moran is a tall man, husky, and Sherlock recognizes him in a flash of insight as one of the two men who had been waiting outside of John's apartment the night he ditched Lestrade. Moriarty had been the other. Stupid! He'd decided at the time that questioning John was more important and that had been a foolish move on his part, one that could possibly cost both of them their lives. "You do realize that this is all a waste of time on your part," he drawls. "Even a child understands that a bond can't be forced. You've already made the attempt and it didn't work. What makes you think it will be different this time?" He makes his voice as derisive as possible, a little chilled by the way that Moriarty never stops smiling.

"Oh, we've thought of that," Moriarty says softly, a suspicious glitter in his eyes. He reaches out and runs a hand through Sherlock's hair, not seeming to notice or care when Sherlock tries to pull away. "It's a pity that you're not an omega, Sherlock. I could really own you then. Fuck you down and make you my own in a way that you'll never forget. Of course..." His teeth flash in a broad smile. "That would be just too easy for us, wouldn’t it? This way I'll be able to do it and know that you're hating every moment of it, but even in the end you will be mine."

He's close enough that Sherlock can get a whiff of his scent. His mind automatically categorizes it as a beta. He knows the information is important but he can't think of what to do with it because John's waking up. The first sign is the way the muscles tense in his back and arms, and then he jerks uselessly at the bonds as his eyes fly open. If Sherlock had a heart, it would've broken at the terrified moan that comes out of John at the moment that he realizes he's trapped and Moran is just behind him. It's an animalistic cry, the kind of cry that cornered prey make when the end is near, and it causes a white-hot flash of pure fury to burn through Sherlock's veins. Moriarty chuckles and steps back, hand sliding out of Sherlock's hair.

"Excellent." He looks and sounds gleeful. "Are you ready, Seb?"

"Been waiting, Jim," Moran drawls, placing an entirely too possessive hand on the back of John's thigh. His hand dips briefly between and John keens, shuddering and trying to squirm away, blue eyes wide and panicked. Sherlock growls low in his throat, unable to stop the automatic reaction, and strains against his bonds. He can feel the rope slicing into his wrists and it hurts but he doesn’t care as long as he gets Moran away from John. Moriarty turns to him and then deliberately moves over so that he’s standing in the way.

"You see, Sherlock, sometimes a bond can be forced," Moriarty tells him, clearly enjoying the way Sherlock stares at him, chest heaving. "As long as the omega's true alpha is present, you see. If you're close enough that you're all the pet can smell his body will think _you're_ mating him and allow the bond." He smirks maliciously. "Sebby will have his little pet and you, you'll be mine because otherwise we'll take John away and you'll never see him again. We're all going to be one big happy family."


	11. Chapter 11

There is a heavy pressure in John’s chest and he can hardly breathe past it. He can’t really hear anything past the dull roaring in his ears, but then again he doesn’t have to. He recognizes the rancid scent in his nose. It seems to fill his pores and cling to him until he can’t move past it, can’t do anything but tremble with the knowledge of what’s coming. A single touch to the back of his neck is enough to incite fire in his nerves and he jerks in the bonds that hold him securely to the bed, unable to hold back a cry of pain as the finger slowly travels down the length of his spine and then dips between his spread legs to slide over his entrance. 

Oh god, please no, not _again_ \- the words get trapped in his throat and he curls up as best he can when the finger leaves off, leaving him shaking with the residual effects of pain. There’s a few breathless seconds, maybe even minutes, before something changes. A familiar scent, warm and welcoming, surrounds him. He’s yearned to get close to this scent for the past several days, has forced himself to pretend that it doesn’t matter when really it does, very much, and he can feel the blinding terror slowly beginning to recede. Gradually he becomes aware that someone is speaking to him.

“Yes, John, that’s right, it’s me and we’re alone. I know that you’re frightened of Moran but you have to stay with me. You can’t retreat like this, not if you want to escape being forcefully bonded to someone else. John. Wake up.”

“I’m here,” John croaks. His throat feels raw, like he’s been screaming. He opens his eyes and turns his head. Sherlock is sitting beside the bed, tightly bound to a chair. There’s about two feet between them and John wishes more than anything that he could cross that small but so far distance. Those keen, pale eyes are watching him attentively, no doubt seeing far more than John wishes to share.

“Are you alright?” Sherlock asks and his voice is unusually gentle.

“Yes,” he says automatically, even though it’s not true. He becomes a slave to biology whenever Moran is around; the omega part of him overwrites everything, even his soldier background, and quails in the presence of a threatening alpha. It’s maddeningly frustrating because it renders him helpless and he knows that’s just how Moran likes him. He takes a deep breath and relaxes as much as he can. “Where did they go?”

“They’re waiting for your heat to fully begin,” Sherlock says. “Your proximity to me is supposed to make the process faster.”

John blinks. “Why would - ”

“They believe that I am your alpha.”

Those seven words confirm a notion that has been toying at the back of John’s mind since the first time Sherlock touched him and it didn’t hurt. Every omega has the ability to tell when their true alpha is near, but John’s was… damaged, broken even, by Moran’s repeated forcing of the bond. He’d given up on finding his alpha until he met Sherlock. He’s suspected and now it’s been confirmed and he has no idea what to do about it. Sherlock’s face is perfectly blank and he doesn’t even seem to be that affected by the beginning stages of John’s heat. Is this good news to him? Does he care? 

“Sherlock…” he says and there is a distinct note of _something_ in his voice: pleading, fear, an omega’s innate desire to be protected stirring to the surface in the face of danger that John can’t save himself from. He hates it, this weakness that has been bred into him, and yet at the same time he wants nothing more than for Sherlock to save them both.

“It will be alright, John.” It’s probably supposed to be comforting but it isn’t because John can see the tense lines in Sherlock’s face. Even his scent is tinged with a sour taste that lingers on the back of John’s tongue. Sherlock is worried. 

He closes his eyes and puts his face back in the pillow. “Talk to me.”

“What?”

“Talk to me,” John repeats wearily. He likes hearing the sound of Sherlock’s voice. The man can definitely be aggravating sometimes but his voice is deep and soothing and it helps to have another reminder that Sherlock is in the room with him, that he’s not completely alone this time.

Sherlock hesitates for only a moment before he starts to speak. He tells John about the first case he and Lestrade worked together. It should be a humorous tale but it’s not; the gravity of the situation is obvious just by the strained notes in Sherlock’s voice. He pauses suddenly, breath hitching, and John doesn’t understand why until a sudden touch comes on his right ankle. Moran and a smaller beta that must be Moriarty have returned. John hisses at the unexpected flare of hot pain and stiffens, waiting for the blinding flare of panic, but it never comes. He’s frightened, yes, uncertain, but he stills feel in control, however tenuous it may be. Is this what the presence of his alpha can do?

“How is he doing, Sebby?” Moriarty says. He has a high-pitched voice that’s seeped in gloating. John looks over in time to see him sauntering over to Sherlock and tangling his hand in the rich dark curls. A flood of loathing goes through him when Sherlock grimaces and he vows, silently, that someday he’ll see Moriarty and Moran dead.

“Ready,” Moran responds after a cursory swipe between John’s thighs.

Which is… strange. John’s heats haven’t been the same since he returned and he knows that. They’re stunted, lasting only a day or two, with none of their usual intensity. Moran must know this because he doesn’t seem surprised by the lack of slick or begging on John’s part. But in spite of that John has always felt the need to fuck during his heats and right now he doesn’t. There is a warm, comfortable weight in his belly but it feels the way it used to, like it’s a build-up, a precursor to the _want_ that will drive him later. He breathes out slowly and locks eyes with Sherlock but Sherlock seems to be more preoccupied with glaring at Moran, an audible growl rising in his chest.

And then John feels it - the heavy weight of Moran settling on top of his spread thighs. His lungs stop and he wants to close his eyes but he doesn’t, he keeps them on Sherlock as Moran pushes in agonizingly slowly. It hurts, his body isn’t relaxed and he can’t help squirming, his wrists and ankles rubbing raw against the ropes. Moriarty is standing by watching, one hand still tangled in Sherlock’s hair to make sure Sherlock doesn’t turn away. John is shaking and he can feel his control slipping away and it hurts and he just wants Sherlock, wants Sherlock to _make it stop_ because he can’t take it, not again.


	12. Chapter 12

For most of his life Sherlock Holmes has successfully ignored biology. He’s always considered himself to be far above such a useless thing. He treats his body like the transport it is and has very few impractical luxuries in that way; his expensive clothing is because people are more willing to take him seriously when he strikes an imposing figure (the same goes for his hair), when he eats it’s food that is prepared for him regardless of whether or not he really enjoys it, and he rarely indulges in the physical relationships that so occupy the majority of the rest of the world. This is how he likes it, with biology having as little claim on him as possible.

But this is one situation where the mind of Sherlock Holmes gets no say.

His reaction to seeing Moran mount John is purely instinctive, borne from his natural tendency towards possessiveness and the alpha-dominant side of him that views this situation as a serious infringement of _his_ territory, which is mainly comprised of 221 Baker Street and, specifically in this case, one John Watson. The furious, snarling growl which erupts out of him seems to surprise even Moriarty, because the man stops watching Moran and John and turns to look at Sherlock with wide eyes. By that point, of course, it is far too late for him.

The ropes snap like thin plastic under the sudden surge of unnatural strength that floods through him and Sherlock stands, his hand snapping out and sliding around Moriarty’s neck. It feels good to have that slender throat under his control, to feel the way Moriarty swallows. He can see the shock in Moriarty’s eyes, coupled with something else that’s not fear, not exactly, probably lust, but he doesn’t care. He squeezes with relish until Moriarty goes limp and then throws the man aside, not caring if he’s dead or not. There is a far more pressing danger that is mounting his omega and Sherlock moves forward, fully prepared to take care of it.

Moran knows he’s coming, of course he does, he also sees John as his territory and he’s prepared to fight for him, to kill Sherlock if that’s what it takes. He pulls out and stands up, swinging his leg over so that he’s in front of John, hands loosely clenched at his sides, waiting. Sherlock takes a step towards him and then stops. He enjoys the look of confusion that flashes across Moran’s face a split second before his head explodes. Brain matter and blood strike the floor in front of Sherlock as the body topples forward with a dull thump, revealing Lestrade and the gun he’s holding.

John is whimpering, pulling weakly at the bonds as he struggles to look around and see what’s going on. Ignoring Lestrade, Sherlock clambers onto the bed and slots his body into the space up by John’s head. “Shh,” he murmurs, cupping John’s chin. The blue eyes are frightened and wild when Sherlock looks into them: this isn’t John, he’s retreated to protect himself from Moran and this is what’s left, the terrified omega, but the awareness is coming back slowly. He allows John to bury his head in Sherlock’s stomach and keeps a hand on the faded blond-gray hair to keep him there.

“Sherlock?” Lestrade keeps his distance, knows better than to approach until Sherlock gives him permission. He reaches into his pocket and takes out a knife, holding it up. Sherlock gives a short nod and Lestrade moves closer. Both of them flinch at the way John panics, crying and whimpering, when he feels someone else touching him. Lestrade cuts the ropes as quickly as possible and then steps back to watch, sympathy written over his face, as John scrambles upright and clutches at Sherlock, fitting every inch of his trembling body as close to Sherlock as possible until he’s nothing more than a huddled ball on Sherlock’s lap.

“No paramedics,” Sherlock says. John is shaking badly and he knows that John can’t handle it, not right now. The touch of anyone else is only going to set him off again.

For a moment it seems like Lestrade is going to argue. It’s not hard for him to put the pieces together and figure out what’s happened, and it doesn’t seem right not to rush John straight to the hospital. But he takes another look at John and in the end he nods reluctantly. “Make sure you get him checked out, Sherlock,” he says, darting a disgusted look at Moran. “I’ll drive you two home.”

“Thank you.” It takes effort to get off the bed without stumbling; John almost goes into a panic when Sherlock moves. Sherlock soothes him and manages to get his coat off. He wraps it around John’s body to give him some cover and starts to pick him up but John stiffens, his eyes having fallen on Moran. 

“Sherlock,” he says, sounding a bit more like himself. “He’s… dead?”

“Yes John.” And Moran is fortunate that Lestrade shot him because Sherlock’s plans for him were considerably worse. He realizes that his arm is draped possessively around John’s shoulders, but John doesn’t seem to mind, is even leaning into the support.

John shivers. “Good. Can we go home?”

Hearing John refer to 221b as his home takes the edge off of the anger still churning through him. Sherlock nods and guides John around, half-carrying him out of the room. They leave behind Moran’s body and Moriarty, who may or may not be dead, Sherlock doesn’t care as long as he never comes around either of them again. As they move outside, he notices a few of the officers giving John frankly speculative looks and grits his teeth. The trauma has not lessened John’s heat. It’s coming on strong and as a result his pheromones are clouding the air. He tightens his grip and glares at every single one of them until they look away.

Lestrade brings his car around and Sherlock and John get into the back. John curls up so close that he’s practically in Sherlock’s lap again, and since it’s only Lestrade around Sherlock throws caution to the wind and hauls John up onto his knees. At first John’s mouth opens like he might protest but then he shifts and a strange look crosses his face and he shudders, sinking into Sherlock. He tucks his face into Sherlock’s throat, where his scent is the strongest, and breathes in shakily.

“I can still smell him on me,” he whispers.

“He’s dead, John,” Sherlock says lowly. “He can’t touch you anymore. Even if he wasn’t, I wouldn’t let him.” He bites back the instinctive ‘you’re mine’ that wants to follow and settles for wrapping his arms securely around John, holding him tightly for the rest of the drive.


	13. Chapter 13

Somehow, John musters the strength to get from the car to the flat on his own, with only Sherlock's possessive hand resting on the small of his back for support. Lestrade tells them he’ll be by tomorrow for their statements and drives off. Mrs Hudson bids them both a cheery hello when they step through the front door and for a moment John just looks at her, utterly disoriented by how completely _normal_ she sounds. It seems inconceivable that life could have carried on while he was being raped, but then he'd felt the same way coming back from the war, hadn't he? He stares at her blankly until Sherlock's hand tightens against his spine and he nods at Mrs Hudson as he guides John up the stairs and into the safety of the flat. Hearing the sound of the door closing behind them both, solid and impenetrable, makes him feel exhausted.

"John!" Sherlock's arms come around him, stopping his slow slide to the floor. "John, wake up."

"I'm alright," John mutters, but it's a lie and he knows that Sherlock can tell, that anyone who paid a fraction of attention would be able to. His legs don’t want to support him and he feels like Moran's touch has dirtied him in some way, like the man has left an oily impression on his skin and inside of him that he'll never be able to erase. A lump forms in his throat and when he exhales, he can't help shuddering. "I need to shower, Sherlock. I need to get his - his scent off of me."

"Okay, shh, it's okay. Is it burning?"

Now that Sherlock has asked, John realizes that it is. His whole body tingles painfully except where Sherlock is touching him, but it's worse inside where the remnants of pre-come have slicked the way. He shivers again and nods. Sherlock sets his jaw grimly and, without saying a word, lifts John off of the floor. He carries John down the hall into the bathroom and sets him down on the toilet. Too speechless to protest, John just sits by and watches as Sherlock switches the shower on as warm as it will go. Reluctantly, when the room has filled with steam, he slides the coat off and stands up. Somehow being naked with Sherlock in the room doesn't feel odd or embarrassing and he has no second thoughts about getting into the shower.

What he does mind is now that the curtain has been pulled closed and the room is clogged with steam he can't see or smell Sherlock. Fear lodges in his throat and his breath picks up a beat too quickly. He didn't like being alone last time, either, but he'd hated anyone touching him so most often that's how he ended up and he’d dealt with it. He wraps his hands around his stomach and tries to stop shivering even though the shower is so hot that his skin is turning pink in places. He can feel a pressure rising up in the back of his head, a curious but familiar prickling at his eyes no matter how hard he blinks. He should be able to deal with this. It shouldn't matter so much. _Why_ does it matter so much?

And then there's a blast of cold air behind him and Sherlock is stepping in to join him, nude, the water bouncing off of the pale flat planes of his chest. He pulls the shower closed and looks at John, pale eyes flicking quickly over John's face. John swallows and then swallows again, knowing that Sherlock can probably read everything at a glance. He doesn't know what to do so he just stands there, miserable and defeated, hot tears stinging at his eyes. Sherlock picks up a washcloth and puts a bit of soap on it. With a tenderness John wasn't aware he was capable of he reaches out and begins gently running the cloth over John's arm. It feels good and John submits to the thorough cleaning eagerly, letting Sherlock manipulate his limbs however the man wants, moving only when he has to.

Eventually he ends up stepping closer. The cloth is wandering lower and he feels like he should stop it but actually he really doesn't mind. Sherlock's touch is nothing like Moran's. It doesn't burn and it doesn't leave him feeling chilled. He turns around and bends, placing his hands on his knees and presenting his arse to Sherlock. "Please," he says without looking over his shoulder. His hands clench nervously. This is something that's only between lovers; an omega doesn't present like this unless it means something. If Sherlock rejects - or worse if he accepts - 

Strong hands cup his arse and separate the cheeks and John sucks in a deep breath, bracing himself with a hand against the tile as long fingers slide inside of him coated with soap. He’s not sure which helps more, the soap or the fact that it’s Sherlock touching him, but by the time Sherlock reaches over him and turns the water off John feels clean, refreshed, like every physical bit of Moran has been washed away from him by Sherlock’s attention. He’s even finding that he likes this, likes being cared for in a way that he hadn’t thought he would. Part of him can’t believe it’s Sherlock who is doing it.

“Why?” he asks quietly, accepting the towel and wrapping it around his shoulders.

“Deduce, John. You know my methods.” There’s no smile on Sherlock’s face but his eyes are warm. 

John has the feeling he already knows why. “You believe what Moriarty said. You think you’re my true alpha.”

Sherlock tilts his head slightly in acceptance and reaches out. He rests a hand on John’s bare shoulder. It doesn’t hurt. John lifts his chin and waits for it, because he knows it’s coming and for once this is what he actually wants, and he gets it: a soft kiss brushed lightly over his trembling lips. He keeps his eyes open the entire time and so does Sherlock, and the strength of emotion he sees in those pale eyes makes his knees shake. More than anything, he wants to forget about Moran, wants to be embraced by Sherlock and know what it’s like to be loved. Still, it takes all of his strength to say it.

“Take me to bed, Sherlock.”


	14. Chapter 14

If Sherlock was a better man, he would take John to bed to sleep. They would spend the night together, yes, but he’d give John time to recuperate before anything else happens between them. But fortunately Sherlock Holmes is most assuredly _not_ a better man, he’s an alpha and his omega is in heat. The force of John’s heat has not been lessened by what happened with Moran and the smell, that purely _John_ scent, is making his mouth water. Now that all traces of Moran have been washed away from John’s skin he wants to make John his, wants to make sure that no other alpha will ever be able to move in on his territory. 

They move into the bedroom and John sinks down onto the bed looking tired. He gives a little shiver when the delicate skin of his bum hits the blankets. A soft, breathy exhalation escapes him and he looks a little more alert. Experimentally he squirms, grinding his cheeks down against the bed. His eyes flutter shut and he moans quietly, cheeks turning pink with a flush of pleasure. Slick liquid seeps around his thighs, staining the blanket, and Sherlock truly thinks that he may go mad before the night is out.

“John,” he says, because that seems to be the only thing he’s capable of saying. 

“Sherlock.” John looks up at him, lips parted and wet, blue eyes round with surprise. “I can’t - it hasn’t felt like this since before I went to Afghanistan. I thought that Moran had - ” He stops suddenly and looks away self-consciously. Sherlock doesn’t need him to finish the sentence to know what John was about to say and it makes him angry all over again. It’s truly a pity that Sebastian Moran is dead because Sherlock would love the opportunity to kill the man in a much more painful way.

“Exposure to me might have changed that,” he says thoughtfully, forcefully tamping down on his rage. There’s been research on the bond between omegas and alphas, of course, but no one truly knows how it works or what the bond is capable of. “Perhaps it was because subconsciously you were concerned that Moran might come after you and try to bond with you again. Your body was protecting itself as best it knew how.”

“And now it doesn’t have to?” John looks like a little amused by this as he squirms again. “ _Christ._ ” His cock, large for an omega, is standing up proudly against his belly, begging for Sherlock’s mouth. A little bead of pre-come dribbles down the shaft and Sherlock swallows, roughly licking his lips. “Oh god, don’t look at me like that unless you’re going to do something about it.”

“Do you want me to?” Sherlock asks, working hard to keep his face blank. He knows what he wants John to say but he’s not going to force John, not ever. 

“I don’t know. You… you don’t seem like the type to want a bond.”

Sherlock pauses before responding because technically this is true. He’s always scorned the idea of having an omega. In his youth he used to tell his parents that he would never bond with anyone. But somehow it doesn’t seem like such a bad idea anymore, not when the omega could be John. They’ve only lived together for a short time but it’s long enough for Sherlock to know that John’s presence doesn’t annoy him like everyone else does. John is different: he doesn’t change Sherlock’s way of life, he adds to it in a way that no one else has been able to manage. He studies John for a long moment, knowing that this can’t be taken back once it’s done, and makes his decision.

“I do,” he says. “If it’s you, I don’t mind.”

John’s cheeks flush a little harder. He looks almost shy, sitting there with his pretty cock on display, fingers clenched tightly into the sheets on either side of him. “Um, alright.”

That’s all it takes. Sherlock falls to his knees and swallows John to the root in one smooth, practiced method. John’s startled yelp that devolves into a ragged moan makes him smirk. He’s never bonded but he’s got more than enough experience and he intends to use all of it on John. He swallows again, working his throat around the shaft and delighting in John’s whimpering little cries. It’s unlikely that John’s ever been on the receiving end of this. Alphas and omegas can be so very _vanilla_ about sex. As much as he wants to turn John over and plunge into him, he wants to intimately know every inch of John’s body first until they’re both mad with heat and can’t hold back any longer.

Slowly he pulls back, dragging his tongue along the underside, keeping one of his hands pressed against John’s hips to keep him still. He uses the other to push the foreskin up until there’s a little bundle of extra soft skin for him to examine with fingers and tongue before he lets go, revealing the swollen tip. Sherlock kisses the head before parting his lips and licking at the slit, tasting the essence of John. Musky and salty, a little bitter, but he doesn’t mind. He licks and licks until John sobs and reaches down, pulling at his shoulders.

“Please, please, I need you in me,” he gasps, looking utterly wrecked.

“Hmm, are you sure you’re ready?” Sherlock teases, finally sliding one hand back beneath John’s bum. John helpfully arches his hips, legs falling open invitingly, and Sherlock’s wandering fingers encounter slick wetness and hot skin that if he were standing would make his knees weak. Oh yes, John is ready. He stands up and leans over John. “How do you want me?”

It seems to take effort for John to understand the question. His eyes flutter open and he exhales shakily. “I want to see you.”

That’s fine with Sherlock. He encourages John to scoot up the bed with a gentle push and crawls after him, letting his emotions play out over his face: pure lust with a healthy dose of possessiveness. John swallows hard and shivers, holding his arms out. He pulls Sherlock into an eager kiss, allowing their tongues to meet while his hands wander across Sherlock’s slender back. With effort Sherlock pulls away, sliding forward until he can put his lips beside John’s ear. In his deepest, most seductive voice, he purrs, “I’m going to fuck you until everyone knows that you’re _mine_.”


	15. Chapter 15

John’s heart is thrumming and he feels halfway to having gone mad. His heat is definitely in full effect now, causing a thrumming burn that throbs through every inch of his body, like he’s been out in the sun for too long but not so easily soothed with a cream. His thighs are damp and his cock is so hard it aches, and he feels empty, a sensation that borders on painful. Everywhere that Sherlock touches him is tingling pleasantly and his scent surrounds John like a hazy cloud, comforting and exciting all at once. He moans softly and parts his thighs, letting Sherlock slide between them until their cocks are rubbing together, and cants his hips up.

“Please,” he says again, loving the look on Sherlock’s face when he begs. His eyes go all wide and dark and feral and his touch gets deliberate, possessive, fingers curling around John’s upper arms. He wants Sherlock to fuck him hard, wants to forget that there was ever a time when anyone other than Sherlock Holmes touched him.

“Yes,” Sherlock hisses. One of his hands moves down, seeking, sliding between John’s trembling thighs to grasp his shaft. He rubs the tip across John’s hole, not pressing in yet, just teasing. His other hand grips John’s hip, preventing him from moving. He keeps his gaze on John’s face and John feels completely open and exposed because he knows Sherlock can read everything that is passing through his mind. And then, slowly, Sherlock pushes against him, the head of his cock sliding in.

The initial breach is awkward, just a little. John shudders, his mind flashing back to the heavy weight of Moran pressed against his back. He takes in a short breath and opens his eyes when Sherlock murmurs his name. Sherlock is close, close enough that he can lean down and kiss John tenderly, their mouths moving together, tongues flicking. The taste is unique and helps to ground John in the moment. That, combined with the way that for the first time ever there’s no discomfort or pain from being entered, is enough to make him tilt his head back and nod.

“S’alright,” he rasps hoarsely, hands shaking. “More.”

“You need only say and I will stop,” Sherlock says, holding still.

“I know. It’s - fine. More.” John arches his back and rubs one of his ankles against Sherlock’s lower back and buttocks in encouragement. He can’t get enough air into his lungs when Sherlock begins to move, sliding deeper, so deeply that John swears he’s being split in two. His eyes flutter shut and he gasps, hands scrambling for a hold, when he feels the swelling knot bumping gently against his rim. “Oh _fuck_.”

“John.” Sherlock’s voice sounds a little shaky. With effort John opens his eyes and looks up at him. He can tell at a glance that Sherlock is forcing himself to stay controlled. 

“Sherlock,” he replies, drawing in an unsteady breath. There’s no way to describe how it feels to have Sherlock buried inside of him. He brings his other leg up and hooks his ankles behind Sherlock, keeping the man locked in place. Both of them are shaking and John is wondering if he could come just from this, with no other stimulation when Sherlock’s belly drags over his cock and he moans, startled. “Oh god, more. Fuck me, Sherlock. I want to know what it’s like to have you come inside of me.”

Sherlock growls, his chest rumbling, and pulls out as far as he can with John’s legs still lodged around his hips. He pushes back inside, hands braced on either side of John for maximum leverage. Every slow drag and slide of his cock sends a hail of sparks thrumming through John’s body. He can feel every inch of Sherlock’s cock and it’s maddening, a friction so delicious that he never wants it to stop, wishes that they could just stay in this single moment forever, pinned under Sherlock’s comforting weight being fucked thoroughly and exquisitely.

But Sherlock is grunting, his thighs trembling from the strain, and starting to move faster, striking with unerring precision. John hears himself whimper and is too far gone to care, his hands wandering aimlessly over Sherlock’s shoulders and arms, and then he tangles his hands in Sherlock’s curls and pulls him down so that his face is near John’s neck. He’s never done this before, of course, but he’s heard about it and he wants it. He groans when Sherlock tastes him, tongue sliding over the curve of his collarbone, licking at the sweat that has gathered there, searching for just the right spot.

He arches his back helplessly, knowing that his orgasm is almost upon him, and Sherlock’s hand slips between them and palms his cock. And there, that’s it, John cries out and comes in a rush, spilling between them. Sherlock groans deeply and sinks his teeth into John’s neck, breaking the skin as he thrusts hard with his hips, forcing his knot into John’s body. John shudders and presses his nose into Sherlock’s throat, letting the sweet scent imprint on his senses while Sherlock laps at the small wound, blood and saliva binding them together. His hips are still working minutely, pumping his seed, being milked for all he’s worth.

They collapse together at last, Sherlock slumped against him, and even though John can’t breathe very well he’s never felt better. Reenergized and made new. He keeps his face tucked against Sherlock and sighs when he feels Sherlock hand gently combing through his hair. “What do you think will happen to Moriarty?” he mumbles.

“Mycroft will probably question him about everything he knows,” says Sherlock. “If he survived, and I’m not wholly certain that he did. I was rather angry at the time.”

If he didn’t, that’s fine with John. He almost hopes for that. “Thank you, Sherlock,” he says quietly, and there’s so much relief and gratitude pent up in those three words that he’s glad his face is hidden. Sherlock doesn’t do sentiment well, John knows.

But to his surprise, Sherlock leans back and tilts John’s face up so that their eyes meet. He leans in and kisses John lightly on the mouth. “You are mine, John, and no one will ever touch you again. You have my word on that.”

John’s throat hurts but he still manages a somewhat crooked smile. “I love you too, you git.” He closes his eyes and nuzzles his head against Sherlock’s shoulder sleepily. It won’t be long before the frenzy of his heat is back, stronger than before, but in the meantime he’s exhausted and the idea of sleeping here, beneath Sherlock, is strangely appealing: there’s nowhere else he’d rather be. He falls asleep to a hand stroking his hair and lips pressing a kiss against the bond mark on his throat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all of the wonderful comments, everyone!


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